Under the Linden Tree
by Vindicated Irony
Summary: I'm the girl that died and didn't stay dead. SI/OC-as-Fem!Mammon/Viper
1. der erste

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**Hahaha ImdoingitagainarentI?**

**But I just love KHR so much. So much I'm re-watching the entire anime. So much that I have so many plot bunnies.**

**I was actually inspired to start this by **thelonelylovechild's** SI-as-Fem!Skull story, **_Cranium_**.**

**Even though I personally think Viper/Mammon is a girl (even when everything says 'he').**

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Disconcerting was the only way to accurately describe being reincarnated in one word. Because one moment you're somewhere familiar, you know who you are and then – then you're knocked for a loop and somewhere else in a body that just isn't _right_.

Then you spend a few years only half-there because your new body can't handle a mind so large, not yet.

So then you suddenly become conscious and you're surrounded by people who you know, but then again don't, and somehow can speak (kind of) a language you've never learned.

And you have no choice but to accept, because _what other choice is there?_

In any case, my now-name is Betlinde Feld. Currently five years old and the only child to a poor family living somewhere in southern Germany. A place where, apparently, it was normal to have plum colored hair and darker purple eyes to match.

I'm the girl that died and didn't stay dead, and instead became a girl-child (or woman-child, perhaps) with a lifetime of knowledge in a place I know nothing of.

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While I was five when I gained full consciousness as Betlinde Feld, when I was seven when I got the first real glimpse of the town I lived in – and, perhaps the most interesting _person_ in the town. I was on the first of what would be many, many trips around town scrounging in the dirt for lost change (and perhaps more) – change that I was saving and hiding (saving because I did _not_ like being poor, and hiding because my dad liked booze).

It was obvious the whole area was fairly poor, though some of us were obviously worse off than others. My family, for one, lived in a small home with cracked windows and beer bottles all around – courtesy of my father. Several other houses were in similar forms of disarray around us, and then they slowly grew into more middle-class-esque houses out by the market square. Though my favorite place by far was a small park where large, centuries old Linden trees grew, shading the whole area and littering the ground below with the rays of light that filtered through the leaves.

Despite the area's beauty, not many people went there. They instead went to another park that was mostly a grassy plain, all because of a strange old woman who all but lived in the Linden tree park.

She was a gristly old woman, her hands and feet gnarled with age and her dark eyes sunken and seemingly forever watching. Her hair was probably the prettiest part of her, as it was long, straight, and shimmered in the light all the way from the grey in her roots to where it transitioned into dirty blonde at her middle.

I could say that with upmost certainty and detail because I was face to face with her right now – something I was sure my mother would _not_ be pleased about.

"Child, do you know the legends?"

Her voice was as I'd imagined it – warbled with old age, but still distinctly feminine.

"Legends?"

My voice, on the other hand, was neither distinctly feminine nor masculine. In fact, it somewhat matched my looks, as I was on the more androgynous side – then again, I was seven, so it wasn't unusual.

"These Linden trees, child. The Sacred Trees –"

"Betlinde!" Mother's voice was shrill as she grasped at my arms, "What do you think you're doing? You _know_ –"

Mother's voice faded to the back of my mind as I glanced over my shoulder, my deep purple eyes connecting to the old woman's dark, dark eyes. We stayed that way, eyes connected, until mother pulled me around the corner.

Dark, dark eyes filled with knowledge.

Knowledge I wanted, because knowledge held _worth_.

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**Fun Facts: **

_Betlinde is a German name that can mean either "Bright Serpent" or "Bright Linden Tree"._

_Feld is a German surname that means "Field" (which is **also** ironic. Can you tell me why? ;)) _

**So yeah.**


	2. der zweite

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**WARNING: Abuse is mentioned in this chapter. Not explicitly written out, but referenced to and mentioned.**

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Only a faint, almost nonexistent creak followed the removal of a piece of the floorboard under my bed – also known as my "stash". Or, rather, the little space under the floor where I had a small and worn fabric bag filled with all the spare pieces of change I find in the streets. It was from paranoia and necessity that I did it.

Paranoia because a thief – not uncommon around here – would check everything else. And because I did not want to live a life where money was tight again, because that's all my past life was. It was full of bills and debt and nothing to pay it with.

Necessity because if a thief didn't find it, my mother or father would – though mostly my father. Mother would take it and add it to the family funds, and if she did that father would find it (or she'd get smacked around until she gave it to him). Father would take it because money means booze, and booze means life for him.

It was toxic, this house. This life.

"_FELICIE!_"

A smack and a thump followed the yell, causing me to hurry in my actions and shimmy from underneath my bed before making a move for the window. Because, at this point, it was best to get out of the house. I felt bad for running while mother suffered, but I did not want to take chances, even if he hadn't yet made a move for me in these seven years; besides, I was sure mother wouldn't want that to happen.

So it was with a resigned grimace that I carefully opened my window with a muffled thump that sent dust into the air to tickle my nose. Another muffled yell came from somewhere in the house as I slid out the widow and pushed it shut with a click that sounded more like a crack.

"A danger foreseen," I mumbled as I shuffled across the street, "is half avoided."

I'll have to face him one day – whether I want to or not. It was inevitable, really. Whether or not I come out unharmed is something that I'd rather not think about though.

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Again I found myself at the Linden tree park, my hands clenching and unclenching around the coins in my pockets as I moved through the trees. The old woman was my goal – as I desperately wanted to know what those 'legends' she spoke of were.

"So the child comes again."

My spine snapped straight and I jerked around at the sound of her voice.

"What? Where did you come from? You weren't here before."

An indulgent smile crossed her face, the light filtering through the canopy above us tinting everything a faint green.

"Wasn't I?"

"You weren't!" I felt my brows furrow, "I would have seen you!"

She laughed, and for a moment I couldn't help but to think of her as a witch – because that's certainly what she reminded me of when she laughed her loud, high pitched laugh. Considering her appearance and literal appearance mere moments ago, it didn't seem too farfetched either.

"Magic, child. It was magic."

My face flushed – she was crazy; absolutely crazy, "You're insane!"

"Am I?"

I froze, halfway in my turn and I felt my eyes widen, because there was a _tree_. And I don't mean the trees around us, I mean that there was a small tree – a _Linden_ tree – _growing from her hand_. It twisted and produced little green leaves and it truly looked like there was a bonsai tree growing from the center of her palm.

"The Linden tree is sacred – a tree with the power to protect us from bad luck and repel harmful spirits," her gnarled hand clenched suddenly and the tree burst into white petals that floated gently to the earth, "And bolster powers that are beyond people unlike us."

There was a shimmer and suddenly there were two upside-down triangles on her cheeks, purple in color and marred by her wrinkles.

"Powers? _Us_?" I swallowed thickly, "And your _face_ – those weren't _there_ before!"

"Magic, child. Witchcraft. Illusions." She motioned to her cheeks, "These are marks from The Society. They show that I completed my training; that I can control my illusions."

I wanted to protest, say that she was insane, but I couldn't. Because I'd seen that tree in her hand, something that shouldn't have been possible. Plus, the moment I saw those triangles on her cheeks my gut had twisted, and something in my head was screaming that I had seen those before. Though I couldn't for the life of me say where that was – I _knew_ it had to be in my past life though.

"Why tell me this?" It had started eating at me the moment I saw the tree, "Why show me? I'm just a little kid."

"Because you have _potential_, child." The indulgent smile crossed her wrinkled face again, "It's even in your name."

I licked my lips and my hands clenched around my gathered change, "But how do you know? _Who are you?_"

"I know because I can sense it." She tapped her temple, her dark, dark eyes boring into mine, "I go by many names, but you can know me as Solange."

The world seemed to shake for a moment and my heart seemed to quiver in my chest – because this was overwhelming. Absolutely overwhelming.

"If you want," she continued, "you can also know me as 'teacher.'"

I hesitated before tearing my eyes away and running, my heart beating a mile a minute. Behind me her warbled voice called out clear as day –

"Take your time. I'll be waiting, Betlinde."

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**That's right. I named her Solange. WHAT OF IT?**

**Fun Facts:**

**Linden trees **_**are**_** actually thought of that way by some people.**

**Her last name Feld, which means "field" (I mentioned this last chapter), is ironic because when Viper starts going my Mammon Esper, "Esper" is a name with German origins and means "Pasture".**

**Hence why I made her German in the first place.**


	3. der dritte

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**I'm actually rather fond of this chapter. I really am.**

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Everything felt so routine, so suffocating, after my confrontation with Solange. It was like everything was too _mundane_ now that I'd gotten a taste of the abnormal, almost like the life I was living now wasn't the life I'm _meant_ to be living. But to accept what I'd seen as reality was almost like rejecting reality – which was something that was very hard to accept.

Because it was scary to think that there was some sort of magic underworld. And it brought up more unpleasant thoughts about the world as I knew it.

So I didn't think about it.

I pushed it back.

I pushed it back and focused on the here-and-now that I lived in. Because to get away from this house and this life, I had to think about it to find a way out.

"Be-Betlinde!" Father's voice was slightly slurred and coated in the irritation that came with a hangover, "Go get me shum f-food…"

With an almost silent sigh I called out in acceptance before grabbing my threadbare black coat to fend off the offending drizzle outside. I shrugged it on as mother met me by the door, handing me some spare change with a bruised hand before she ran the same hand through my hair and pulled up my hood.

"Be safe," her hand cupped my cheek, "and be quick, please."

It wasn't just out of worry for me that she said this, I was sure. But I had no reason to stay out long in this dreary weather; being soaked through wasn't something I enjoyed. That and I'm still deadest on avoiding that old hag Solange. Even if I desperately missed the tranquility and thrum of energy brought about by the Linden trees.

"I will, mother. As quick as the wind."

And with that I stepped out and into the misting rain.

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As one might imagine, there weren't many people out and about in this weather. Sure, there were a few people walking the streets with old umbrellas and the occasional car flashing by and spraying dirty gutter water onto the sidewalks and unlucky pedestrians, but there weren't near as many people as per usual.

_It makes the town have a solemn sort of air_, I mused, _and the dankness and cloudy skies makes things so grey._

As I made to take a shortcut through an alley I couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the Linden tree park and couldn't help but to stop – because it seemed so unreal. Even with the greyness from the overcast sky and the cover of misty drizzle the park seemed so green. So alive. It almost effervesced with muted color and something in my gut coiled and twisted the more I soaked in the view.

"Oi! Brat!"

I tensed and jerked around, my breath catching in my throat as I caught the glint of a knife. Connected to that knife was a dirty, shaking hand that was connected to a poor specimen of a man – complete with greasy, frizzy hair and wild eyes set in a grey face.

"J-just…give me all the ca-cash you got!" He was frantic, stumbling over words – impatient too, "What y-you waitin' for kid?!"

But I was just so stunned and the coiling in my gut turned into a roiling pit of _something_ that seemed to make my mind turn to mush – that is, until the man seemed to snap and _lunged_.

And whatever it was roiling in my gut and my head _snapped_ and a scream got lodged in my throat as my eyes squeezed shut and I stumbled back to fall on my behind, ground water soaking into my skirt. The only thing that passed through my mind at that moment was a fleeting, wishful thought –

_A guard dog, if only I had a guard dog. Something intimidating like the Grim._

And then there was a scream, distinctly male yet distinctly high pitched. Following that scream was a snap of jaws and a snarl, deep and feral and another choked scream that turned into almost silent wheezing.

My eyes snapped open to be met with a hulking, black figure. A dog, big and covered in wild black fur. Its eyes were an eerie yellow and its teeth oh, so obviously sharp and glinting a red hue in the murky light from the mixture of blood and saliva. And the man lay there, shuddering, blood pooling from the spots where the dog had torn into them.

The dog then met my eyes, as if asking _'What now? What will you have me do?'_

In that moment it was as if a lightbulb went off in my head – _the dog wasn't real_. It was there, but not, and was the exact creature I'd imagined when the man had lunged for me.

"You aren't real," I breathed, "an illusion."

And as if validating that statement he faded, seeping back into the shadows from whence he came. The man, though, was still bleeding – still wheezing. Because he had believed, and because he had believed he had been _hurt_. I was both horrified and intrigued by this realization –

Horrified because an illusion had done this. Something that wasn't really there.

Intrigued because _an illusion had done this_. I had done this, somehow.

The man might die, probably would die, I realized as I hurried out of the alley and to my original destination – the market. Part of me was somewhat indifferent to that fact, the other had me internally screaming and crying and my body becoming cold. A coldness that only seemed to deepen as I bought the food and as I stepped through the doorway of my home and handed the bag to my mother.

And when I entered the bathroom the coldness combined with shock and I froze, a hand on my hood that fell limply to my side as I had a stare down with my distorted image in the cracked mirror. Because with the dark hood pulled down over my face and my plum hair limply framing my face everything that I thought I knew about where I was seemed to take off running out of the house.

Because if I imagined two upside down triangles on my face, I'd look just like Viper. Mammon Esper. The Varia's illusionist. The Arcobaleno of Mist.

The coldness soaking through me became numbness and my body tingled all over and a few tears fell down my face –

"…I need the old hag."

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**And don't think she'll just forget that man's death after this.**

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	4. der vierte

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**Guest(I'm assuming all three were the same one...?):**** Oh ho. **ʕಠᴥಠʔノ❤  
><strong>Also, thank you! And the mind works in funny ways - so in situations like those you might not think now that you would be able to think of anything - and you probably wouldn't - but that doesn't mean you <em>wouldn't<em> think of _something_.**

**And the "Society" will be explored in time, my lovely Anon.**

**And Solange is a pretty name. (Though I honestly wasn't thinking of pretty names when I named her).**

**[]**

**For some reason I feel I'm oddly good at writing dark stuff.**ಠ**_**ಠ **And I don't know how to feel about that.**

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Despite claiming that I needed to see Solange, and feeling the need to go see her, I couldn't bring myself to do it. What held me back could be compared to thin strings, like the ones used on marionettes. Little strings that were thin, ready to either snap of their own accord or be snipped away as if someone was snipping away at them with scissors.

Two had already broken away – one had snapped when I was left with the bleeding, dying, sorry excuse for a man in the alley; the other was cut by Fate itself – or God, Krishna, or what the _hell_ ever was _there_ – when I looked in the mirror and saw _Viper_.

My breath fogged my murky cracked window as I exhaled sharply, making it look even _more_ dank than it already was. It was getting frustrating, staring down at my hand, willing something to happen, and then getting absolutely nothing.

Though, perhaps nothing wasn't exactly true.

I got wisps. Insignificant little wisps with no shape or solidity – even when I was clearly imagining a flower or a coin. Even the big, black dog I'd made in my terror was out of my reach. All I could do was form a pitiful little ball that was like a sphere of confined heat, because that's what it looked like – a condensed marble made of heatwaves like the ones would see wafting into the air above a hot surface.

_Had the real Viper had this problem when they were a child?_

_Had they been this horrible? This untalented?_

My fingers twitched as I stared down at them – my stubby child-fingers and ragged, bitten nails. They twitched again and I reflexively clenched my hand at the hollow thump that sounded from another room in the house – a thump that spoke of flesh hitting something that wasn't flesh, something that I hadn't heard in a while.

"Am I going to regret this?" And as I said it, I was sure I would, but I didn't stop myself from peering into the living room.

A cold chill shot through my bones and with how hard it was to move, I felt that my joints had frosted over, and I could imagine so clearly this sheet of ice crisscrossing over my bones and muscles and stopping all movement as my heart thudded in my chest. Because my father was laying there, unmoving on the floor with beer soaking into his shirt from an overturned bottle. And I was horrified because this looked just like the dying man in the alley.

Except I heard no wheezing. I saw no movement.

Was he – had he just keeled over? Had I walked in to see another dead man?

"Father?" My voice trembled, low at first before increasing in tenor, "Father? _Father_? _**Dad**_?"

Just as soon as my breathing started becoming erratic he all but snarled and twisted over at an alarming speed that I would have no way of outclassing – even if my joints hadn't frosted over – and then I was on the floor several feet away with a stinging cheek and addled brain. He stumbled up, scowling and cursing with a hand clenched in his hair –

"What the hell ish wrong wich ya, ya little sh-shit?"

The stinging combined with fuzzy numbness as I scrambled up and back, with eyes that were undoubtedly wide and conflicted.

"Ty-tryna' sleep a-and ya come makes noise. Get tha he-hell _out_."

And I was gone, my joint burning instead of freezing, echoing the feeling in my face.

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Mother had hugged me and cried when she got back that day almost a week ago. She had dropped to her knees with me pulled to her bosom before rocking, mumbling about how sorry she was as her tears soaked into my shirt, leaving an amorphous stain in the fabric that was a shade darker then it was meant to be.

I had cried too – though it was more the bottled up tears left from when I'd killed that man.

It was the push I'd needed though, that incident. Because it had me here, at the Linden tree park, staring up into the canopy with the green filtered light almost masking the bruise that was now shaded green and brown instead or purple and blue.

My spine tingled and I winced at the sensation, peeking over my shoulder to see the old woman staring at me with her dark, dark eyes. The look in them made me want to scream, because they had that look that said _'I know what happened'_… but they _didn't_ have a look of pity or even empathy. It was somewhat odd, but I was grateful for that, at least.

"Death is something we can't avoid," she warbled, "Death and pain and all of the darkness in the world is constantly baring down on us."

I didn't respond as she paused, eyeing me – her dark, dark eyes not giving anything away.

"We can't defeat it. We can run, and we can hide, but it still finds us and the cycle starts again."

Annoyed – and upset and _lost_ and _**scared**_ – I snapped back at her waspishly, all but hoping my words would somehow sting her, "Then _what_ do we do?"

She smiled, her teeth oddly straight and an unnatural, bright white, "We accept it, make it a part of us. Take it in and use it until it doesn't affect us anymore."

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**Did you notice my new love of strange text faces?  
>Because if you didn't.<br>**(´◉◞౪◟◉) **  
><strong>

**Fun Fact:**

_Mammon_ is a biblical name that means "Riches".  
>So <em>Mammon Esper<em> is basically "Rich Pasture".

**Also:**

**I originally had the final (eventual, because it's a long way away) pairing figured out. But then I saw fan art of another pairing and got conflicted. So I'm actually considering (eventually) posting another story that takes an alternate route once I reach a certain chapter.**


	5. der fünfte

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**Ahoy.**

**Guest: Her mom is sweet; and Betlinde loves her very much! Pairings probably won't come in for a long while - but I definitely know which pairing is going to be the main one!**

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Creating illusions was harder than I imagined it would be; it was far more than just imagining something and having it appear. You had to will it; believe in it. Or, as I understood, have an up-welling of an emotion like fear or anger, much like when I initially summoned the visage of a Grim. And living a life relying on strong, negative emotions wasn't a life for anyone to live.

And I think I knew all of that, somewhere deep down. But regardless, I didn't think that making something so _simple_ would be so _hard_. The old hag had, just days ago, tasked me with creating the image of a ball about the size of my own fist.

I couldn't do it.

I got flickers of the ball, which I could picture so clearly in my mind, but nothing substantial came about in the material world.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

"_BETLINDE!_" Then again, 'frustrating' seemed to describe my whole life at this point in time, "Betlinde! Get the 'ell down 'ere 'nd make me 'shum food!"

The flickering, not-quite-there ball completely faded as I moved begrudgingly to the kitchen – everything sour. My mind, my feelings, my mouth – all sour. But I had to do this, if I didn't then he would just get mad, and not just at _me_.

"Th't – th't mum of yursh…." I heard the dull slosh of beer in a bottle, "J-just layin' 'round now-a-days. U-useless."

An audible click sounded as my teeth gnashed together, "She's _sick_! Not _useless_!"

A faint whistling sound was the only warning I had as an empty beer bottle sailed past my head and smashed into the wall, the sound of the shattering glass loud and echoing. It was also all I needed to move and get out of his sights – into the kitchen, where I wasn't certain what I would find in terms of food. Though finding something _not_ stale would be preferable, because he was likely to get even worse if I gave him something stale.

With that in mind I also moved to make a simple vegetable broth for mother as well – as she'd been sick for a few days now. As that simmered in an old, dingy pot I quickly made a sandwich, the bread just shy of stale and the meat probably close to the 'best used by' date. Quite frankly it was disgusting, and I had to imagine I was eating something else every meal.

But it was what we had. So it was what I ate – what _we_ ate.

Father all but growled as I sat the plate down by him, and I myself didn't make a single noise. One slap to the face was enough for me, thank you very much.

"…broth is ready," the clinking of the pot was louder than my own voice, "…hopefully mother will be hungry."

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Mother was pale, her skin almost the color of parchment paper with faint dusky circles around her eyes. She still smiled and she still spoke in a kind voice, but she was hurting; that much was clear. She was hurting and that hurt me because I couldn't do anything for the one person that cared for me the most in this life.

"How kind, Betlinde," her dull eraser pink lips pulled into a smile, "Such a sweet daughter I have."

My responding smile was tight and I had to force a happy light into my eyes, because it really did _hurt_. It hurt to see the faint wobble and slosh of the broth that was a tell-tale sign of her trembling. It hurt to know that she was sick and getting _worse_. Because I felt like I should do something; that I _had_ to, because she _deserved_ it.

"I can – maybe – I have," words tumbled past my lips without preamble, "I have some money saved, I can – maybe we can take you to a doctor –"

A cool, shaking hand cupped my cheek, thin fingers wiping away tears I hadn't realized were there, "None of that, Betlinde. I'm sick. I'm getting worse. We both know that, and I hate that. I hate that you have to see me like this, but I'm so _proud_ of you.

"Betlinde, my sweet, smart daughter. Keep that money. I know you've been scrounging for it for years, and I want you to save it and use it to find a better life. If anyone can do that, it's you."

I cried – because her voice was so weak but so strong and her tone held no room for argument. But I still hoped, because that I could do. Hope that things wouldn't stay bad, wouldn't continue being bad. Hoping that I could make a change some_where_, some_how_.

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"So you can finally make the ball, eh?" Solange pointed a gnarled finger at me, "Now try making it again, but make it _translucent_."

My face soured and she cackled, the pitch of it matching the one a person would imagine one of those witches from fairy tales would have. And had I not have seen what I had and been through what I have, I might have actually cringed at the sound.

"…do I really have to?" My tone was just as sour as I was sure my face was, "Can't I move on?"

"Move on to what? Making something translucent on purpose is harder than you think, child." She held her hands out, "Learn to do it this way first, then it will be much easier."

Part of me wanted to cry and scream, because boy was this _stressful_. And if I was a normal child maybe I would have broken down – or maybe not, if this was _Viper_ I was talking about. Perhaps the original Viper was a genius child with a strong mind, because it sure seemed like most illusionists had stronger – or _weirder_ – minds than most.

But that was all irrelevant now. Because this was me; my mind, my life – all me. And I was going to live through this and get out of this poor, dingy town. If illusions were the way I was going to do that, then so be it. If becoming an assassin was the way to do that, I'd do that too – I had already killed someone, after all.

So I could handle it in the long run, right?

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Life could be a wonderfully cruel thing. Constantly it clutched at us and tried to pick at the strings that were holding us together, and the ones that tied us to others. The old hag had described the cruel parts of life as "horrible but necessary" and, admittedly, I could see the validity in that. I really could.

That didn't mean I like it. That didn't mean I wasn't raging and boiling over with all sorts of negative emotions as my mother kept fading and wavering in front of my very eyes. She was teetering back and forth on the line between life and death, and that line was thinning slowly but surely as life picked and pulled at it.

"Mother, can I show you something?"

Her eyes glinted for a moment, a weak curve at the edges.

"…I only recently learned this, you know," I cupped one of her hands in my two much smaller ones, "And I have to show you – because I _want you_ to see."

I sucked in a deep breath and willed with all my heart for this to work – and to my great relief it did. In the palm of her hand a little rosebud grew into existence, and then that little rosebud grew. It grew and reddened and folded outward into a bright red, fully bloomed rose. But the best part wasn't that it worked, not at all. It was mother's face –

It was the awe, the pride, the _love_.

And it was with that look of love that she spoke her last words, so light I thought I might have imagined them –

"_I love you."_

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**Let's say that Betlinde/Viper is nine now. Closer to nine than ten, but not too close.**

**Also, I felt sad writing that. I really did.**

**Also also I felt like this wasn't my best work. x.x; I feel like I've failed with this chapter, but it was a necessary chapter. So I might rewrite/edit this later.**

**Also also also, do you all want to know the main pairing? And what the other one I was considering as the main pairing? It won't be happening for a long while, so I won't be putting the character into the story's character list until their appearance.**

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	6. der sechste

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**My college closed today because we were/are supposed to get heavy snow (like, 4-6 inches). It is now three in the afternoon as I am posting this and we haven't gotten a single flake.**

**LOL.**

**Caterina: Sorry about the shortness! Of this chapter too; the next one will be much longer. Lengthening this one without making it disjointed was too hard.**

**Guest 1: Ahhh~! Thank you so much! For somereason I think my writing style drastically changes when I write this specific story (or maybe that's just me). But I'm very fond of how I write this.**

**Guest 2: If I could have kept her alive I would have, but for the sake of progression… As for the Varia…We'll see. 8D And Oh dear; I want to tell you the pairing, but others have expressed they wish to wait and I don't want to spoil it for them. D: If I could message you to tell you I would. 3**

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Part of me felt as if the Heavens were grieving for my mother, for soon after her burial snow had started falling. It was kind of poetic, in a way, seeing as she was such a pure soul and now the surrounding areas had a coat of white almost as far as the eyes could see.

But it also made things seem so final.

Without my mother, I didn't really have a home. That house was colder than normal and was filled with nothing but anger and beer bottles; it was a hazard to be in for long periods of time, no, it was a hazard to just _enter_ the place. That being said, it was time for me to find a new home – if I _could_ – and get away from this place.

"So you've made your decision," Solange's aged voice was tinged with understanding, "I'll make the preparations then, young one."

"Where," my breath swirled up in white tendrils, "will we be going, Solange?"

One of her gnarled hands landed on my head and I tensed on instinct as her calloused hands caught on my hair, "Why, France, of course."

With that she seemed to vanish – no doubt aided by illusions – and I was left at my mother's still-fresh grave, the earth and marker coated in a layer of white. I let out a deep breath, a puff of white blowing out and curling up past my cold nose and dry eyes as I muttered one last goodbye under my breath –

"You wanted me to escape this life, didn't you? Well mother, I am. But… you have too, haven't you?"

A sharp gust of wind almost wrenched my hood off and caused my skin to sting as it swept up snow from the earth into the air again. As it swirled up into the air to fall again I stretched my arms out, took a deep breath, and shut my eyes. I didn't have to open them to know that the falling snow now resembled red rose petals, and I didn't have to look back to know that they had faded back to snow once I left the cemetery.

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The bag I had to stuff my few belongings in was obviously worn, from both age and use. It was a bitter, almost gut wrenching feeling to realize that I could literally stuff my whole life into this one bag. All that I had to my name was a faded fabric bag of my scrounged up money, four sets of clothes (including what I was wearing), and two old family heirlooms from my mother – a locket and a ring.

They were both dingy and in severe need of a cleaning, but they were still beautiful. I couldn't tell what they were made of, but whatever it is was sturdy since she'd said they'd belonged to her own mother. She'd guarded them voraciously, as they'd held so much sentimental value – and now I supposed it was my turn to do the same.

'_Maybe one day you can give them to your daughter,' she'd said._

_Unlikely._

_Pure wishful thinking._

The creaking floorboards seemed to thunder in my ears now that I knew I was actually leaving this place for good. It was as if they were trying to tell me something – that they wanted me gone; that they were sending me off. But if the creaking was thunder then the heavy footsteps of my father were gunshots.

"W-Where th' 'ell," his face was blotched with red as he hiccupped, his broad shoulder leaning heavily on the doorjamb, "d' you th'nk yer goin'?"

His face scrunched and his eyes lit up with drunken anger tinged with sorrow – but I couldn't find it in me to feel the slightest bit bad for leaving. As he started forward I didn't even feel fear, like I once had. All I felt was _angry_; angry and resigned and determined. My head ducked and my fists clenched and I let all of the anger, sadness, and determination that I felt pool in my gut before _pushing_ out with my mind.

"Th-the 'ell is this?!" His voice was higher pitched in fear, but still rough with anger, "B-Betlinde, y-you–"

My violet eyes met his own – the exact same shade as mine – and from the corners of my eyes I could see what I had managed; what I was doing. Hands – they were greyed out; not at all the right color – were restraining him, one on each arm and on clenching at an ankle –

"I'm leaving. For good." I strode past him and when he tried to reach for me the hands held him in place, "I don't want this life. _I can do better than this_. I _will_ do better than this with my life."

As I felt the door clattered shut over his loud, drunken protests. I didn't worry about the noise though – the few people that lived around here knew him well enough that they would just think he was in some sort of drunken rage.

My feet led me in the direction of the linden tree park and I felt the weight of holding that illusion of hands in place lift from my mind as I turned the corner. My eyes felt a bit heavier and my hands clenched at my side; I needed to get stronger than this.

I was Betlinde Feld. I will be Viper. I will become Mammon Esper.

_The strongest illusionist._

_That's what I'll become._

"Ready, child?" Solange's hair was curled up in a tight bun, making her face somehow younger now that it wasn't hanging around her face and casting shadows.

My hands unclenched, numb from the cold, and I exhaled a clouded breath, "As I'll ever be, you old hag."

"It's not like," the snow crunched under my scuffed up shoes, "You weren't expecting this to eventually happen. You have been teaching me French too."

She chuckled, "Perhaps not in this exact way, but yes. Besides, being knowledgeable in languages will only help you.

"I know," my tone was light as I tugged down on my hood, almost completely obscuring my face, "I think I want to learn more of them. Say, seven? At the least."

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**Shorted chapter (by 300 or so words) because I can't really continue on from here, as it would be disjointed. She'll be in France next chapter, and there will be a bit of a time skip (not too long, so we can see some of her training).**

**So yeah.**

**Also: I've found that "Cigarette Daydreams" by Cage the Elephant is a great muse for writing this.**

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	7. der siebte

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**Caterina: This one is a little longer than the other! x3**

**Also, you guys are all super awesome.**

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Winters in France (Paris, to be exact) were, I found, no different than our winters in Germany. It was cold and it snowed, though Paris was a far cry from the tiny town I'd lived in. There were bigger buildings, and more people. Spring and summer were much the same too, only I had no linden trees to sit under anymore. My new living conditions were the most different part though – and quite honestly I was not used to it, even after half a year.

Because _I lived underneath the Eiffel Tower_.

The Order that Solange – that _I_, now – belonged to was nestled under the city of Paris in a labyrinth like system. It just so happened that the main entrance was located at the Eiffel Tower; they had constant guard shifts monitoring the entrance, making sure only those who belonged got in.

The name of 'The Order' is Ordine Umbram, which Solange explained was Latin for 'Order of the Shadows'. I just thought they were being kind of dramatic with it. Though the moment I voiced that opinion I got saddled with extensive mental and illusional exercises; needless to say I didn't mention it again.

"Betlinde!"

An involuntary twitch moved my shoulders at the very cheery male's voice. He was of the few illusionists living here, as he too was still training; he was also a local name Pierre. The thing with Pierre was that he was so cheerful it was as if his energy could come to life and supply several rooms with electric power – his smile was almost blinding in the right light.

"_Don't_ call me that," my pace turned brisk as I made my way to one of the many large training rooms, "That old hag should _never_ have told you that name."

"Oh, come _on_, that name you want to be called isn't even a _name_." Pierre placed his hands on my shoulders, easily following along with my fast pace, "And can you stop calling granny a hag? She's _really_ nice, you know."

"The old hag will always be an old hag." My voice was deadpan as I managed to shake off the teen's hands, "Besides, she creeped me out at first. She _stared_."

"She just saw your _potential_. Granny is –"

There was a rush of air as I slammed shut the training room door, whatever Pierre was saying muffled into intelligible mumbles. Part of me wondered how it would have felt to catch the teen's hands in the door – he wouldn't be so touchy then.

Solange laughed her loud, high pitched laugh – nay, cackle, "Pierre wants nothing more than to be friends, child. You're so harsh on him."

"Your grandson it a nut-bar," I crossed my arms and felt a semi-scowl form on my face, "If I let him, he'd drape himself over me. _And he refuses to call me by my name_."

"But your name is and always will be Betlinde, child."

Her voice always sounded wise, something that I assumed came with age, though it didn't always mean what a person was saying was wise. Though, admittedly, the old hag was right. Betlinde would always be my name – but that didn't mean I _wanted_ or _had_ to be called that.

"I'm not going to respond to it anymore." My arms uncrossed as I exhaled, "Now, can we get started already?"

Solange chuckled again, her long hair rippling and shimmering as she shook, "Fine, fine child. Since you've taken to smaller illusions like a fish to water we'll start on large scale ones."

She motioned behind her with a quiet 'like this' as a small scale Eiffel Tower formed behind her, even the blemishes seemed spot on to the real deal aboveground. As her example faded away I contemplated my options, as she obviously wasn't going to _tell_ me what to make – that was completely up to me this time around.

And I knew what I wanted.

I formed the picture in my mind – the long, twisted body sprinkled with natural blemishes, and the beautiful leafy covering, vibrant and practically blowing in the wind.

The air where I was picturing it wavered and swirled and I pushed and willed into existence my creation – and come into existence it did. I couldn't help but let out a somewhat awed but quiet gasp at the large linden tree as it's leaves and branches moved, as if pushed by the wind.

"Very well done," Solange herself seemed very pleased with my creation, "Viper."

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Despite what had been an initial success, I had been finding it harder to create other larger illusions, and the ones I did manage I couldn't sustain for long periods of time quite yet. The linden tree was the only one that I had made and sustained – and that illusion even had movement. Solange had told me that it was because of my emotions attached to those trees, and that I absolutely had to work to where I didn't have to rely on emotions.

And I really understood that.

Because I couldn't have an emotional attachment to _every single illusion_ I cast. That would only lead to a swift downfall – I'd come crashing down like a tree cut down at the base.

"Why is this so _hard_," I fell back and stretched out my limbs, my face scrunching at the pressure of my popping joints, "Why can't I do this?"

"Wow, you actually sound like a kid for once!" Pierre's voice was loud, as per usual, and caused me to jerk and smack my head on the floor, "Oh man, Betlinde, that looks like it hurt."

As the ponding of in my head faded my tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of my mouth and my eyes watered, but I pushed _that_ back easily enough. The look I gave Pierre was what I was sure was my best possible stink eye, but the older boy just grinned at me.

"Shut up, Pierre," I groused, rubbing my head as I sat back up, "I'm trying to figure this out."

"Kid, be a kid for a while!" Pierre landed with a thump on the ground and crossed his legs, "You've got so much time to get this. Heck, you're already learning faster than most people do."

My lips parted for a brief second, "Learning faster? This feels like it's taking forever. It's been almost a year."

He laughed, loud and bright, the kind that makes the room feel like it's shaking –

"Man, Betlinde, I'm fifteen and I just really got good at large scale, moveable illusions. You're – what, eleven, now?"

I didn't speak – I couldn't. Was I really moving that fast? Stressing myself out over something that someone older had just really mastered? It was a little confounding to think about and I couldn't help but wonder if this was what the Viper I remembered felt like during this training. Had they pushed hard to master everything as soon as possible?

If I accounted for their love of money that was very possible. That was a factor in my rushing too – money and freedom.

Pierre, as annoying as he was, seemed to understand at least part of that –

"You haven't really gotten to go out much since you got here, right? Let's go out; you seem like you need the fresh air and sun. Besides, you're pretty pale."

The smile that had started to pull at my lips turned into a scowl, "Shut up, Pierre."

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The city was bustling, with French people and foreigners alike, and was almost refreshing. Memories of my life from before were blurry, aside from the ones relating to this life. But I knew I had lived in a bigger city, at least for a while. It brought a sense of comfort that I hadn't felt in a long while, and I was very thankful for Pierre at this point in time.

"I don't see why you're wearing a hat," Pierre whined, his arms crossed behind his head, "Let your hair loose, Bet–"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that!" The childish whine was back in my voice and I winced – because since when could I hit such a high pitch? "And I'm wearing a hat because a hood would be _weird_."

Pierre just laughed his loud bright laugh before grabbing my arm, "Come on, I think I know a place you'll appreciate."

At this point I was kind of worried – because what type of place did this nut-bar think I would like? Pierre was never someone I tried to understand, and as such I couldn't even begin to guess where he was planning to take me.

"This place is kind of rough," he was all smiles as he led me down an alley of all things, "but it's a place people like us can really appreciate."

Before I could really question what he meant by 'people like us' I was pleasantly surprised. Because the place he'd brought me was a back alley café – it was grungy in a good way. And it reminded me of home (in the best way possible).

"They're kind of hidden in the shadows too," Pierre's voice was bright, even as he kept it to barely a whisper, "Hackers, informants, the like. The owner is actually an Order member, you know."

I couldn't get a single syllable out, as Pierre had called out a cheerful greeting to the people inside – there were only three, at the moment – and was either ignored or greeted calmly. It was obvious enough that these guys knew him fairly well, and I mentally filed away the fact that, yes, I needed to pay more attention to this teen.

He'd thrown me off with this – he'd shown me something unexpected. Unexpected of this city, and of him.

"Oi, kid, you just gonna stand around?" The voice came from behind me and was distinctly adult and feminine, "You look lost when you do."

She was tall, blonde haired and blue eyed – statuesque, really. And she had a little girl huddled behind her leg, a little girl with pretty teal hair and blue eyes like her mother's – she was probably five or six years younger than me, if I had to take a guess.

"Sorry," I scooted to the side, bumping a chair as I did, earning a somewhat amused smile from the woman.

"First time visiting this place, kid?" She didn't even seem to need me to respond, seeing as she continued on without waiting for any sort of reply, "You came in with the touchy idiot, right?"

"Oh," I spoke before I could check myself, but I didn't regret it too much, "I'm not the only one that thinks that?"

She laughed at that – the good kind of laugh where they throw their head back and their eyes squeeze shut –

"You seem alright, kid. Even if he's a touchy idiot, he knows how to read people," she gave me a not-quite smile – it seemed she was one of those people that could only really smirk – and held out her hand, "The name's Clarisse, kid."

Her hand was slim and her fingers oddly calloused, "…I'm Betlinde… but don't spread that around."

I shot a dark look over at Pierre, my tone turning bland, "The only reason I said it is because he'd call me that anyways."

Clarisse laughed again, her eyes shimmering with amusement and understanding, "I'll just call you Bet, then. And, Bet, since you're new and young I'm going to ask something of you."

"And by ask," I stared up at her impassively, "you mean tell, right?"

Her smirk spread wider, verging on a sarcastic looking grin, before she squatted down to push the little girl forward, "Bet, meet my darling little Arlette. Arlette, meet your new big sister Bet."

At first I was going to try and weasel out of this – I wasn't sure how good I'd be with kids – but then the darn kid had to smile at me. Her nose scrunched and a shy blush reddened her cheeks as she ducked into her shoulders and I sent the blonde woman a withering look, but said nothing as I took Arlette's smaller hand.

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**Ahahahaha. Do you know what I've just done? ;D**

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